


The Boy Next Door

by Fight_Surrender



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Carry On Exchange (Simon Snow), Fake/Pretend Relationship, Grand Rom Com Gestures, M/M, Many Rom Com Tropes, Mutual Pining, Neighbors, Professional Violin Player Baz, Romantic Comedy, Simon has a Chihuahua named Pippa, simon is a writer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Fight_Surrender
Summary: Simon Snow is a New York Times bestselling author. He shares a sprawling flat with his geriatric chihuahua, Pippa. His next door neighbor is a pompous git, but he is also wildly handsome and wickedly talented.T. Basilton Pitch is the principal violinist for the London Philharmonic Orchestra. His next door neighbor is a half-feral idiot. He is also ruggedly handsome, in an unwashed way, and his books are so good Baz pines for days when he's finished one.Will this pair of splendid morons manage to get together already?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 30
Kudos: 75
Collections: COE Winter 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teastainsonmysoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teastainsonmysoul/gifts).



> Hello hello. This fic is written for the December 2020 edition of the Carry On Exchange. My prompt, in a nutshell, was (and I quote): "The cheesiest rom-com tropes all thrown together." I have to admit, I haven't watched a cheesy rom com in a very long time. So, I googled rom com tropes and made a list. This is going to have to be a multichapter thing, no idea how many, but I do have an outline, that I may or may not stick to. I am not going to commit to a posting schedule, sorry guys. Best bet is to subscribe if you want to follow along. I'm hoping to include an airport chase scene, a kiss in the rain, maybe a grand orchestra gesture, a hint of angst (maybe) and always fluff, and snark, and weird humor. And a chihuahua. Because Simon Snow deserves a foofy little purse dog.
> 
> Hm. In formatting this, I realized that I can't easily change the font for Simon's book excerpts to set them apart from the rest of the story. I need to get this posted, so I'll have to figure that bit out another time.

**Simon**

“I need your hideous fucking dog to stop shitting on my mat.” He’s practically spitting at me. 

“I clean it up every—”

“I don’t care. There are still shit particles present that I subsequently track into my home. So in essence your dog is shitting in my house. Frankly, this is bioterrorism.”

“Are you kidding me?” _Bio-fucking-terrorism? This guy is a piece of work._

He waves his hand in my face. “Enough. I should call the W.H.O. What’s wrong with that creature anyway? Can’t it shit on the sidewalk like a normal dog?”

“Pippa’s like a hundred and two in dog years, mate. She’s got arthriti—”

He sneers. Well, sneers more. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him _not_ sneer. “Who the fuck names their dog Pippa? Does she have a shapely bottom?”

At this point, Pippa’s finished doing her unfortunately timed business. She looks up at me and stiffly wags her little tail. I pick her up and smooth her purple and pink polka dot hoodie. “I didn’t name her, the shelter did. It was right after the royal wedding, so.”

“Fucking ridiculous.” He unlocks his door and makes a show of high stepping over the offending pile. Then he slams the door in my face.

I sigh and look down at Pippa. "Good girl," I whisper. She cocks her head at me, all bug eyes and snaggle teeth. She understands. She gets it. Tyrannus B. Grimm-Pitch is an insufferable git. And I’m hopelessly in love with him.

**Baz**

I close the door and lean back onto it. Close my eyes and breathe while I will my heart rate to slow down. Simon Snow is a menace. He looks borderline homeless. Perpetually befuddled, wearing flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt. With that ubiquitous grey dressing gown, I don’t think he owns any actual clothes. He constantly coddles that geriatric chihuahua. It dresses better than he does.

I rub my hands across my face. Simon Snow. With his stupid unkempt bronze curls. And his stupid blue eyes. I sigh. He’s a fucking disaster. And I’m hopelessly in love with him.

**Simon**

“I heard that,” Penny cackles from her spot on the sofa. She’s watching Killing Eve. Again. I’m pretty sure she’s got a crush on Villanelle.

“Don’t you have your own flat?” I stoop to deposit Pippa onto her little bed.

“Yeah, but yours has better food and more sexual tension. Mine’s gloriously dull.”

“There is no sexual tension, Pen.”

“OK Romeo, and Pip just accidentally shits on sexy violin guy’s mat every day, at exactly the time he’s due home from rehearsal.”

“That’s right. An accident. She’s got old dog issues.”

“You’ve got issues, Simon.”

I pad to the kitchen and flick on the kettle. I lean against the granite counter. I love this kitchen. Wide open with a huge island for parties that I don’t have. The previous owners commissioned an intricate mosaic of an undersea landscape for the whole backsplash. Colorful fish, an octopus. A bright red lobster graces the wall behind the stove. Elaborate branches of coral weave through the scene in brilliant shades of green, purple, yellow. A sea away from the sea. It’s gorgeous and spectacularly weird. When I saw it, something about it spoke to me. I knew this was the place.

I took the leap and bought this flat about a year ago. Astonishingly, it seemed that I could actually support myself with this writing thing, that getting published wasn’t a fluke. I finally quit my job as a copywriter for J. Peterman, then Pippa and I moved here. I still can’t believe people pay money to read what I write. Blows my mind. The kettle pops off. I pour the hot water into my cup and a steaming cloud of Earl Grey grounds me. Time to pay the bills, the next book isn’t going to write itself. I shuffle to my office and click on the PC.

Raging Inferno Chapter 2: The Hot Viola Guy Next Door

He’s hot. Like smokin’ hot. Like, I’m half dragon and he gives _me_ chills, hot. Like I all I want to do is pin him against the wall and have my way with him hot. I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s a vampire. And a dragonhunter. But we can work that out, right?

**Baz**

I pour myself a glass of Malbec, thick and blood red, then wander to the balcony for a fresh air serotonin hit. Today was a beating. Keven Minotaur, the interim conductor, is a beastly taskmaster, very much befitting his name. I’ll be glad when Maggie gets back from her sabbatical in America. At least she’s somewhat rational, unspeakably gaudy jewelery and all.

I relax and let the wine seep to my limbs, warm and heavy. Then I hear Simon clacking away at his computer next door. To my knowledge, he never closes his window. It’s as if he’s impervious to weather. He bangs the keys like he’s got a personal vendetta against his computer. An incessant staccato beat like the words have wronged him somehow. I shake my head in wonder. I cannot believe that imbecile is a New York Times bestselling author. His fantasy horror absurdist fiction books are so smart and darkly funny that, despite my worst intentions, I devour them one long sitting. (I may or may not call in sick to work to accomplish this.) I hate it. The protagonist is half-dragon for fucks sake. I have every book in the series and the novellas. They’re all signed, but I used a pseudonym, so he didn’t know they were for me. 

I’m pathetic.

I curl further into the one chair I can cram on to this miniscule balcony. There’s a shelf wedged out here too, filled with plants so I can pretend to live somewhere where green things thrive. This city cloaks itself in endless shades of grey and taillights otherwise. I try to ignore Simon and listen to the hum and beep of traffic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day! Woo hoo. Don't get used to it :)

**Baz**

I lower my head and attempt to appear very deep in thought as I hear the telltale tap of Louboutin stilettos.

“Basil.”

I walk faster.

“ _Basilton_.”

I sigh and turn around. “Wellbelove.”

We’re in the grand foyer of the performing arts center named after my mum. Light from the array of chandeliers overhead shines gold in the waves of her perfectly blonde hair. “Will we finally be meeting your mystery boyfriend at the fundraiser this year?” Agatha raises her professionally groomed eyebrows at me. She is tall as it is, but in heels, she’s just a hair above eye level and it’s disconcerting.

“Alas, he has a conflict and can’t make it.” I attempt to match her in eyebrow height, widening my eyes hopefully.

“Yeah, no. That wasn’t actually a question.” Her smile is positively serpentine, “Mr. Boyfriend needs to resolve his conflict.” Agatha Wellbelove did not become the head of the largest philanthropic organization in London with just her looks. She’s right intimidating. “After the PR fiasco that was Gareth and the dead escort, we need to do damage control.”

“Um. Gareth didn’t kill the escort.”

“Tomato, tomahto. Gareth Longbottom, the principal cello player of the London Philharmonic woke up with an overdosed hooker in his bathtub. Regardless of the manner of death, it still looks bad.” She slugs me gently on the shoulder and smirks. It’s unbearably patronizing. “This orchestra will now be drowning in good old-fashioned family values and established relationships. I’m going to need your date’s information by Friday so we can run a background check.”

“Shouldn’t you be out harassing benefactors?” I quip, trying not to sound petulant.

“It’s more fun harassing you.” She turns to clip clop away, all blood red soles and attitude. “Friday,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Fine,” I grumble. It’s Monday. I have five days to concoct a boyfriend for the Pitch Foundation New Year’s Eve soiree. The social event of the bloated, wealthy, philanthropy year. Fan-bloody-tastic. 

***

**Simon**

I lean back in my chair and stretch. Pip snores softly as she sleeps on her little bed next to my desk, her lavender chenille coat rises and falls with each breath. This flat is way too big for just the two of us. Especially compared to the rat holes we lived in before. What can I say? I love the space; I can breathe here.

Tendrils of violin music spin through my open window. Sexy orchestra guy is home then. How can such an arsehole make such lovely music? Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch the superstar violinist of the London Philharmonic. The Yo-Yo Ma of violin. I have a VIP season pass to his performances. I go to almost all of them, but I skip the meet and greets. The last thing I need is for my hot, rude, incredibly talented neighbor to think I’m stalking him. Penny stopped going to the concerts with me because she _does_ think I’m stalking him.

“Just ask him out, Simon,” Penny moans every time we discuss this.

“He lives _next door_ , Penny,” I moan back. “He’s literally _the boy next door_. That never works out.”

“That’s not a thing, Simon.”

“He’s out of my league. And an arsehole.”

“You are very handsome, Simon. You just choose to hide it behind overgrown hair and rumpled loungewear. You’re like Clark Kent with his glasses. He’s definitely in your league.” She looks over her glasses at me. “Furthermore, his nose is wonky. He’s not _that_ hot.”

“His wonky nose is hot.”

Penny rolls her eyes. “Spare me the nose fetish, Si. I still think you like big noses because—”

“I just like guys with big noses, Penny. It has nothing to do with their penis size.” 

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” Penny resumes thumbing through her book. “I still think you should ask him out.”

“What about the arsehole part? His name is Tyrannus for fucks sake. With a name like that, you can only be an arsehole.”

“Nobody likes dogs shitting on their posh door mat, Simon. Regardless of their name.”

“He’s a total snob. I’m not sure he’s capable of smiling. He never says hello. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know my name.”

“Maybe he’s shy. Have you introduced yourself?”

“Shut up, Penny. Stop being reasonable.”

“One of us needs to be.”

 _All right Simon Snow_ , I chastise myself. I shake my head to clear the distraction. Focus. I left click the mouse and retype my password (Pippa).

Raging Inferno Chapter 7 A Close Call

That was close. Rage McGuffin nearly got my goose. I catch my breath in the alleyway behind the Gangcorp building. It’s always dark here, ominous. Like the building exudes evil. I allow myself the luxury of a sliver of fear. Of relief. It really is a shame I had to torch McGuffin, but I couldn’t let him escape. I’ll have to come up with another way to bring down Reginald Direstrength’s evil empire.

Of course, Talarurus or _Thescelosaurus_ or whatever his name is (Who names their kid after a dinosaur?) happens to wander out of Costa just as I apprehend McGuffin. I had him in a discrete head lock when I glanced up, for the slimmest fraction of a second, into a gorgeous set of pearl grey eyes rimmed in long, ebony lashes. The eyes widened in recognition, then horror. In that flash of distraction, Rage clocked me and ran.

I close my eyes and take a breath. This alley smells like exhaust fumes and old Chinese food. _You need to get a hold of this, Oliver Wolf Salisbury_. _This crush is ridiculous. You don’t do crushes. Crushes lead to feelings. Feelings lead to pain._ Focus on the work and forget that guy. No good will come of it.

I push myself off of the wall and shake my head. Someone’s got to die.

I pause my typing and glance over at Pippa. She’s still curled up on her pillow, but her breathing is off. Short puffy breaths with a bit of a gurgle.

**Baz**

“Hold your bloody horses, I’m coming.” I shout at whoever is pounding at my door like a deranged woodpecker. If that’s Fiona fucking with me, I’m going to set her on fire. She has a damn key.

I throw open the door to—brilliant, if a little red-rimmed, blue eyes and ridiculous curls the color of old honey. My words catch in my throat.

“Hi, sorry to bother you, but I need a ride,” he stammers. He hunches slightly, clutching something wrapped in a fuzzy pink blanket.

“Did you have a baby?” Why the fuck did that come out of my mouth?

“Wha—?” He glances down, “Oh, no, this is my dog, something’s wrong.” His words run together, fast, imploring. “I need to get her to the vet. The tube takes forever and stresses her out.”

“Don’t you have a car? Friends?” I can’t make my mouth stop making words. Of course, I’ll drive him. I would drive him to America if he asked.

He looks down. His ears turn scarlet and deep red splotches climb up his neck. “Ah, yeah. I don’t drive. Penny’s at work.” He bites his lip and starts to turn around, “You’re busy with orchestra stuff, I’m sorry. I’ll just call a—”

Snow is wearing jeans. Fitted in all the right places. A navy-blue Henley. The man is a vision in proper clothes. I might be swooning. “Hold on. It’s fine just—let me get my keys.” I slam the door in his face.

I glance back to make sure the door is properly closed, then break into a completely unhinged happy dance. _I am going to save the day for Simon Snow_. Multiple fist pumps. Shit, Baz. Control your glee. What if the dog dies? I pause mid-stride. Another surge of wholly inappropriate joy. _Then I get to comfort him!_ My god, I am a sick, sick man. The keys jingle in my pocket as I force myself to think healing thoughts (I’m not a monster) at _Pippa_ (such an awful name).

Simon startles as I burst through the front door. I squelch my excitement and school my features to something more appropriate for the urgency of the moment. “Shall we go then?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz tries to be the hero at the vet's office.

We’re seated in the lobby of the animal hospital. The place smells like piss and antiseptic. Snow won’t stop fidgeting, he’s bitten every nail on his hands, shifted into every possible seating position. Including cross-legged on the chair like a primary school child. All while clutching Pippa, and taking excruciating care not to jostle her.

Simon and I sit wedged between a large elderly woman in a gingham dressing gown, and a dark-haired boy buried within a giant black hoodie. The lady clutches a dusty green carrier containing a wildly obese cat that’s yowling like it’s his last day on earth. (Maybe it is?) The boy holds a white cage containing a twittering parakeet. (If the cat gets out, it’ll be the bird's last day on earth, I suppose.)

Pippa always looks a bit dazed with her bulging eyes and perpetually protruding tongue. The eyes are glazed today, and the lolling tongue looks more grim than cute. (Not that I would ever tell Snow I think anything about that creature is cute.)

I glance at Snow’s face. He’s pale, drawn. Jaw muscles taut and clamped. I snap to my feet and stride to the reception desk.

Snow sputters, “Tyrannus, what the fuck?” I ignore him. A brief flash—w _hy does he call me that_?

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I know I’m on the hairy edge of a Karen-esque outburst, but I can’t stand to watch Snow fret a moment longer.

The receptionist is a wan woman with chartreuse hair, clunky black glasses, and a ribbon of dainty flowers tattooed up her neck. She shoots me a look of complete and utter boredom, like I’m about to recite the Magna Carta in its entirety. I look closer and notice the dark circles under her eyes. The piles of charts and post-it notes surrounding her. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since we entered the building. Tired then, not bored.

My Karen resolve slips. I flash her my most winning smile. “Look, I appreciate that you are swamped and buried to your ears in er—” I wave my hands at the menagerie in the lobby, “animal stuff.” 

“Other patients?” She replies, but with a bit of a twinkle.

I lean in closer, adopting a conspiratorial tone, “My friend over there is New York Times Best Selling author, Simon Snow. Heard of him?”

She scrunches her face at me, nose ring glinting in the fluorescent light. “No. And are you trying to flirt your way to the veterinarian, sir?”

I sigh. Well, that was an epic failure. “Ok, yes. But it’s not what you think.”

The receptionist holds up an index finger and leans to peer behind me. “Mr. Llewellyn?” Hoodie boy looks up. “The doctor will see you and Porkchop in room three.”

“The boy named his bird Porkchop?” I pretend not to notice the daggers Simon is staring at me.

“Yeah,” The receptionist says, snapping her gum. “He thinks it’s ironic. Now, where were we? Oh yes, you were trying to sweet talk your way to veterinary favors.”

I lean closer and drop my voice. “Yes, you caught me. The thing is—.” I close my eyes; I can’t believe I’m going to say this. “I’m trying to impress that guy, and I am actually worried his ancient dog may die while we’re waiting, and that’s not very impressive.”

Amy—that’s her name per the tag on her scrubs—smirks. But it’s a warm smirk, I can live with that. She rolls her eyes, “Is the dog in distress, Mr—?”

“Pitch. Yes. The dog is in distress, Amy.”

“Fine,” She snaps, standing. She thumbs through the pile of charts on her desk, selecting one from the middle of the stack. “Mr. Snow,” She calls out, waving the chart in the air. “You and Pippa and your flirty friend can follow me to room six.”

My face heats, but I refuse to be embarrassed. I did what I had to do. 

“What the hell was that, Tyrannus?” Simon sputters as we’re led into a small exam room. There are two blue plastic chairs and a cat breed poster, edges rolled and cracking, tacked to the wall.

“Why do you keep calling me that? It’s not my name.” The chair creaks as I sit, hard and unyielding. Suddenly I miss the lobby, at least those chairs had cushions. I think of church pews—something about true believers needing no cushions. To love is to suffer.

“What do you mean it’s not your name?” Simon scoffs.

“I’m pretty sure I know my own name, Snow.”

“Well yeah, but—” He looks down, shifts Pippa in her blanket bundle. Then he rubs a finger across her forehead, between her eyes. Content she’s comfortable, he resumes grimacing at me. “The piles of marketing material that clog my inbox say your name is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. _The virtuoso violinist of London_.” He’s fumbling through air quotes while balancing the dog. It’s unbearably cute.

“You subscribe to my marketing material?” I cannot suppress the smile pulling at my cheeks. _He knows who I am._

Now it’s Simon’s turn to burn red. “I didn’t subscribe to anything,” He grumbles, disheveling his curls with his dog-free hand. “I probably just bought some socks or something online and got put on a bloody mailing list.”

“Socks do not put you on the London Phil mailing list, Snow. That’s for donors and subscribers.”

“Well, I’ve done no such thing,” He shifts in his seat, looking everywhere but at me. His freckles are momentarily lost in the red of his embarrassment. “Probably a clerical error. Previous resident.”

“Ok, Snow, we will call your exclusive orchestra subscription a ‘clerical error,’ if you want. Whatever. Nobody calls me Tyrannus.” I pause and wait for him to catch my eyes. “And they definitely don’t call me TY-rannus, like the bloody dinosaur.” 

“Then what the fuck is your name then?” It comes out ragged, he’s at the end of his coping rope.

“It’s Baz.” I say softly. “Call me Baz.” I place my hand on his shoulder. _That’s an innocuous friend gesture, right? What I really want to do is take him into my arms, and pull him into my lap and tell him..._ “She’s going to be fine, Simon.”

Snow closes his eyes. Moisture wicks along his caramel lashes. It’s a moment before he speaks. “I hope.”

The vet finally comes in looking haggard. She’s a middle-aged woman with medium length dark hair streaked in pink. She apologizes for the wait, apparently December is the busiest time of the year for veterinary hospitals. I wonder why? Do animals hate Christmas too? She diagnoses Pippa with congestive heart failure and recommends hospitalization to stabilize her. Pippa is terminally ill, but with treatment can live upwards of a year.

“So that’s good, right?” I ask Simon, as we walk to the car park after signing a mountain of paperwork to admit Pippa. Who knew dogs had do not resuscitate orders? Simon looks like he’s been hit by a bus. 

“I suppose so,” Simon murmurs. Early evening shadows leach the colour from our surroundings. The breeze has ice on its edges, sending November leaves skittering around us. “I guess I kinda thought she’d live forever.”

“No one lives forever, Snow.” I pop the locks on the Jag. “Want to come over and drown your sorrows in wine and chocolate?” I feel a bit reckless and wild, after the smothering air of expectancy and fur-tinged doom of the vet hospital.

Snow settles into the car and leans his head back on to the headrest. He tilts his head my way, his eyes are red and puffy. “Sure. Let’s do that.”

“Excellent.”


End file.
